


Your Name

by HewerOfCaves



Series: Canon Divergence AU [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Past Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-12 03:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20139721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: They kept saying that he had been a king once, though he found it hard to believe. He did not remember it. He didn’t even remember his own name.





	Your Name

**Author's Note:**

> Posted this on tumblr, then decided to post here too. Not beta'd, not a native speaker.
> 
> For people who are new to the fandom and are as confused by all the names as I was:
> 
> Russandol = Maedhros  
Findekáno = Fingon
> 
> Go watch the Japanese animated film _Your Name_. It's very good. It has nothing to do with this story, I just stole the title.

The commotion disturbed his uneasy sleep. He opened his eyes, immediately closed them again and curled up, hiding his head behind his arms. Commotion was bad. It meant pain. It meant he had done something wrong, or they wanted something from him, something he would not be able to give, and he would be hurt for it. Whimpers died in his throat and he curled up tighter. Maybe it wasn’t for him, maybe they hadn’t come after him, maybe if he stayed still and pretended this wasn’t happening, they would pass him by.

The noise outside was only growing louder, but no one was coming to hurt him. The fog over his mind slowly lifted. He remembered where he was. At the camp. He was at the camp. He wasn’t chained. He had been saved. He was not a thrall anymore. He was free. 

No, he wasn’t. He was still under guard, but no one hurt him except the healers, and he knew they were trying to help him. They had given him a bed, and he was lying in it now. How had he not noticed it immediately? They treated him with respect. They kept saying that he had been a king once, though he found it hard to believe. He did not remember it. He didn’t even remember his own name. They had told him it, but he had forgotten. Tears sprang to his eyes. He hadn’t known he needed a name before, but now that he had it, he clung to it jealously. What was it? The commotion had scared him and made him forget. How had they called him? The kind one, the one who had said they were kin, had repeated his name over and over again, but he didn’t remember.

He needed to know. The desire was stronger than his fear of the noise and of the guards. He stumbled out of his bed and limped to the entrance of the tent. He would ask the guards. He shouldn’t fear them. They were kind. They had never once hurt him. They wouldn’t be angry that he had forgotten. 

He opened the tent flap and froze. The guards weren’t there. No one was near his tent, but he could see the majority of the camp a little distance away, gathered around something. He took half a step back into the tent, but curiosity got the better of him. 

It was a slow and painful walk. His leg hurt terribly and his head was swimming. He knew he should return to bed, he knew he would be reprimanded and possibly hurt (no, no, they wouldn’t do that), but he walked on. He would see what the commotion was about and maybe he would be told his name again without having to ask for it. Perhaps the kind one would repeat it in exasperation.

When he was close enough, he could see that almost everyone had their swords out. It made him pause. There was danger. But how? They had told him he was safe, they had told him it was over. He started trembling but kept moving. The first soldiers didn’t even notice him, but others tried to block his way. He dodged them and they didn’t pursue. 

Finally, he reached the center of the circle and frowned. All these swords and soldiers for only two hooded figures. But then he saw what one of them was holding. The lights, burning bright even in their wooden casket. He hated them. If these two wanted to take them, he was glad. 

He looked at the thieves and felt his heart skip a beat. Someone was saying something in a terrifying, otherworldly voice, but he didn’t understand a word. His eyes wide, he stood like a marble statue, hardly even breathing. He knew them. He knew both of them. He stared at the tall one. He remembered his name, all his names, but the one that escaped his lips had been his own gift.

“Russandol,” he called.

They saw him. Color drained from their faces. Russandol let out a small cry and swayed on the spot. His brother steadied him with his own trembling hand.

“Findekáno,” Russandol said, barely audible.

Oh, of course. That was his name.

**Author's Note:**

> In this canon divergence AU, Fingon is presumed dead at the Nirnaeth but is actually captured and freed only when the army of Valinor defeats Morgoth.


End file.
